Indecent Exposure

In August, 2002, my family and I travelled to Lanzarote on holiday.

The trip coincided with the publication of my AS Level results, and as such my father had organised for the results to be faxed to the hotel for perusal.

Upon receiving the fax I was overjoyed with the results, as was my father, who made public his intentions to purchase alcoholic refreshments for a large group of youths my sister and I had befriended.

Having purchased the drinks, my father encouraged all recipients to pose for a picture, which he had commissioned my sister to take. There were roughly 15 of us, lagers raised, teeth glistening, with my father in the midst, resplendent in fading yellow flip-flops and ill-fitting speedos. My sister encouraged us to 'say cheese', and was about to take the photograph when she halted. Something had evidently caught her eye, for she now bore a horrified expression, whilst her face, already crimson from severe sunburn sustained on the first day, now turned purple as she struggled to stifle laughter.

"Dad!" she cried, "You're hanging out!" - words which were accompanied by animated pointing in the direction of my father's crotch. He turned to the group, as if for verification, and we were able to confirm that he was revealing himself, in a manner which I have since termed 'double testicle exposure'.

I was sent to the hotel room for a replacement pair of trunks, the photograph was taken, and the holiday continued without re-occurrence. The offending trunks remain integral to my father's holiday wear.

Oslo, Norway. January 2008.

Oslo, Wednesday 23rd January 2008. 9pm. Having just arrived in Norway's bitterly cold and icy capital, we set out in search of much needed nourishment.

My companion and I were immediately aware we did not resemble people local to Oslo; I, with city map crumpled in hand, was sporting a ski jacket, woefully inadequate Converse trainers, and a vacant expression as I panned my surroundings. Similarly, my companion was also dressed as if in defiance of environment and climate, adorned in a 'University of Liverpool' sweatshirt and shoes with all the warmth and support of a primary school gym pump. In short, we looked like tourists.

After a predictably short period of time, we became lost, and so, in the time-honoured tradition of couples in a stressful situation, we stopped and engaged in a prolonged, and heated, debate (argument) on exactly where we were. After many minutes' exchange of opinion, we decided to strike off in a given direction, myself slipping to the ground as we did so. We walked cautiously along the street, mindful of the thick ice and the two hazy figures heading towards us, trying in vain to affect the air of a calm, spohisticated couple out for an evening stroll. I was still struggling for traction, and struck a particularly ill-balanced character as I shuffled along the pavement, holding onto railings to support myself, whilst my esteemed partner still clutched the map, and scanned vainly from one side of the street to the other, in a vain effort to find out where we were.

It was this desperate, fish-out-of-water scene that greeted the two women approaching us, but, undeterred, they politely stopped us, and, in Norwegian, asked if we knew the location of a certain street. My partner and I looked at each other, disbelieving, and looked back at our inquisitors (I was convinced it was an incredibly sarcastic practical joke) but there was no hint of humour in their expressions. Within a split second, we both found the phrase guaranteed to relief oneself of natives across the world.

"English!" we shouted, in unison, which I reinforced by waggling my finger at myself and said companion, nodding my head vigorously. The Norwegians seeking directions vanished into the night, whilst we located our hotel, and, in further tribute to Brits abroad, its bar.